


Survivor's Guilt

by The_Lady_Meg



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_Meg/pseuds/The_Lady_Meg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Boromir survives Amon Hen, and Fate adjusts itself accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor's Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> For Avani, in the hope that it breaks you as badly as you insist on breaking everyone else.

He survives Amon Hen, if only barely, by the grace of the Valar and the swiftness of Aragorn’s steps. He is battered and bruised, and has a few nasty cuts that are seen to with quick fingers, but he is still breathing. He supposes it to be a mercy and tries not to reflect on how eagerly he would have traded his life for Merry and Pippin’s safety. He thinks death might even have been preferable to living with the guilt of betrayal and failure at once, but he will not burden the others with such reflections. In any case, there is no time, and a band of Uruk-hai to hunt. He keeps pace with Gimli while Aragorn and Legolas race ahead to find Merry and Pippin, brutally aware that this Fellowship was broken by his hand, and not easily will it be stitched back together. Frodo and Sam leaving is certainly for the best, for although Boromir no longer fears himself (he has sunk so low what else is there to fear?), there are other members of the Fellowship, and he is not fool enough to think that the Ring will spare them. The three companions he has left have forgiven him his betrayal, at least on the surface, but he thinks they will never again trust him. He will not ever trust himself again, so he deems it just, and focusses his mind on the rhythm of his feet and the vague but burning hope that Merry and Pippin will still be alive when they catch up with them. He can indulge his guilt when there is leisure to do so without slowing his companions down or endangering them further.

He’s never been so grateful to see the Rohirrim in his life, but the joy of seeing an old friend again is soon tempered by the news he bears of their companions. Éomer also tells him of the death of his cousin Théodred, and by his expression Boromir knows he is aware of the grief such an announcement will cause. Théodred had been a boyhood companion of Boromir’s whenever they were in the same city, and their friendship had matured with them. There is no-one Boromir would rather have trusted a neighbouring kingdom to than Théodred, and his death is grievous news.

But there is no time for grief and no time to waste, even if their quarries are now dead and most of their hopes of rescuing Merry and Pippin now seem futile. They part ways from Éomer after Boromir promises that he will do all in his power to aid Rohan in its current plight. He has no difficulty in interpreting the poorly concealed anger on Aragorn’s face, but this is his duty. Rohan is an ally of Gondor, perhaps not as staunch as it had been before, but an ally nonetheless on a list that grows ever thinner. He has not yet given up hope of the hobbits, but he must also look to his people and the war he knows must come to Rohan.

They have no difficulty finding the pyre at the edge of Fangorn, and Gimli and Boromir both set to rooting through the mound of orcs, desperately hoping they find nothing. That hope is dashed when Gimli shows them one of the hobbits’ belts, and rekindled when Aragorn finds traces that could mean they survived. For now, anyway; Fangorn Forest is no ordinary wood, and grave are the faces of all four companions as they enter it.

His heart is lightened when Mithrandir finds them, for he bears glad tidings indeed! A companion returned from the dead, and the two they feared lost safe and sound. Such a thing is worthy of celebration, if only there were time for it. Mithrandir is also concerned by the fate of Rohan, as it happens, and turns them around to ride with all speed to Edoras. Boromir fears their reception there, given that it has been three years at least since Grima Wormtongue came to court there and bent the ear of King Théoden to his words, but an attempt to speak of his worry to the wizard is soon repelled. He reflects that Mithrandir has always disdained his advice and opinion. Perhaps if his father had sent Faramir on this quest he could have better influenced the leaders of their company. His little brother is the sort to enjoy a tale of a long lost king returned to his throne, and his scholarship and knowledge would have fit better with the Fellowship overall than Boromir’s warlike tendencies and military grounding have done. He might even have resisted the Ring: Boromir knows well the strength of his brother’s mind, and doubts it could be bent by Sauron himself, let alone the pale facsimile that had broken his own sanity.

Edoras is grimmer and quieter than he remembers it: the children are meek and thinner than they should be, the men and women wary and distrustful. He catches a glimpse of Lady Éowyn on the steps next to her uncle’s hall, but she is gone by the time they climb the stairs. He surrenders his (visible) weapons unhappily, but there is little they can do otherwise. He comforts himself with the reflection that there are three knives left on his person and nods at Hama as he passes him, knowing that if the doorward of Meduseld had truly wished them disarmed he would have taken the knives he carries, as well as Mithrandir’s staff.

The change in King Théoden’s appearance is shocking, and cannot (he thinks) be due only to the difference in age since Boromir last travelled to Rohan. There is an air of decay about the entire hall, and the men that follow their entrance with malicious eyes are no sons of Rohan. A cursory glance suggests them to be mercenaries, probably bought by Wormtongue. Should this turn sour he has no doubt of his and his companions’ ability to deal with them, and he is almost equally confident that the men of Rohan present in the Hall would let them. There is no love lost between the two factions, that much would be obvious to even the inexperienced eye, and his is hardly that.

Mithrandir seems to lift the spell off the King without undue difficulty, although Boromir is obliged to prevent Éowyn from interfering. She turns to glare at him, familiarity lending an edge to her annoyance that she would not dare indulge with a stranger, but she allows him to restrain her until the spell is lifted. She darts to her uncle’s side once it is done, and he follows to help her support the King, although he sees soon enough that his assistance is not necessary. The age drops from Théoden’s face before their very eyes, and the gaze he presently turns on those before him has lost none of the sharpness Boromir remembers from many a prank gone wrong during his childhood.

Grima is swiftly thrown from the Hall, followed by all those Éowyn assures her King are traitors to Rohan. Nothing can prepare him, however, for the horror in King Théoden’s voice when he asks for his son, or for the wave of grief that nearly drops him to his knees. He has lost many men during his time as Captain of Gondor, but none have caused him such sorrow, and there is likely only one loss which would cause him grief surpassing that which he feels now. Théodred was the closest friend he had known, the only one to truly comprehend the difficulty of dealing with an aging and increasingly paranoid father, a country as near to ruins as made no odds and a people who looked to him to make everything right.

His offer to help bear his friend to his resting place is made in grief, and not until later does he consider the impropriety of it, but Théoden accepts it immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder with tears in his eyes and professing himself glad that one who had loved Théodred as family would bear him. The right should have been Éomer’s, of course, but the heir apparent to the kingdom of Rohan was now many leagues hence, and to wait would be dishonour to Théodred’s memory.

The funeral is brief, as is their respite from fresh troubles. The two children have little understanding of what they have escaped, for which they are all thankful, but the girl’s cries for her mama are less simple to ignore. That their fate should have hinged on the willpower of two children seems incredible, perhaps less so than it would have before Boromir had left Gondor for Rivendell, but all they can do at present is be thankful for it and hope their luck continues.

The news they bear is grave, to be sure, but Mithrandir’s advice seems ill-judged. Edoras is not defensible enough to withstand siege, and any attempt to defend it would kill them as surely as jumping off a cliff. Helm’s Deep is both defensible and large enough to accommodate most of Rohan’s people. Mithrandir makes no secret of his annoyance and leaves with Aragorn on his heels, saying only that he will find what help there is to be found and bring it to them with all speed. Théoden meets Boromir’s eyes as he issues the necessary orders, and with a flicker of his eyelids bids him stay when he has dismissed all others.

Théoden paces the room and turns to him abruptly. “What is your opinion in this matter? I would not have expected the Captain of Gondor to yield the floor to others so lightly.”

He feels himself tense slightly and forces the reaction down before replying. “Helm’s Deep is surely a trap, now that Wormtongue has returned to Saruman. Yet there is nowhere else that can serve. I say it is the best plan we have, and certainly better than attempting a pitched battle when we are uncertain of the numbers opposing us. Mithrandir is fond of meddling, as you surely know as well as I, but he is not often entirely wrong. We should be prepared to be attacked on the road to Helm’s Deep, as we should expect an attack on Helm’s Deep to be imminent.” He pauses. “The odds of this ending well for us are slim to none. I assume the help Mithrandir is gone to seek is Éomer’s company: if they make haste we may yet live out the week, but otherwise an attack on Helm’s Deep will make a swift end of this war.”

Théoden nods. “You always were honest to a fault. My men have faith in you as they had faith in my son, and will be much heartened if you fight with us. Your companions may prove useful also. The elf I take to be King Thranduil’s son, and the dwarf is of Erebor. Yet the Ranger commands your company, small though it is. I remember him riding to war with my grandfather, and therefore must suppose him to be of Numenorean descent, but if you are willing to concede command to him I would wager that is not the whole tale.”

“Your eyes have lost none of their sharpness, I see.” Boromir allows himself a wry smile. “The whole tale is not mine to tell. Suffice it to say that you are not wrong, and there is more to him than meets the eye. Should all go well in this war, he will likely be more revered than either of us. For the time being, he is accustomed to command and he is better suited to our company than I am. He will defend a chosen battleground to the death and he is loyal to those he deems worthy of it.”

“You paint the portrait of a noble man indeed! Yet you do not like him.”

“I find I am too accustomed to command to easily relinquish the reins. His priorities, too, are different to mine. Which reminds me that I would beg a raven from you, if I may. I would have news of my brother and my country, and I am no longer bound by secrecy.”

“Of course.” Théoden waves him away. “You remember the way, I don’t doubt.”

The letter Boromir sends flying towards Gondor contains little news of himself, only that he is alive and well. Faramir will no doubt be able to read his worry in the words he has written, as he begs for news of the war and of Gondor. He would like to be able to ask after their father, but ravens can be intercepted and none must suspect discord between the Captain of Gondor and the Steward.

He returns to the Hall in time to hear Aragorn’s conversation with Éowyn, and is somewhat perplexed to find Éowyn pretending to be anything other than supremely confident with a sword. Théodred had taught Éomer swordplay from a young age, and Éowyn had refused to be left out. Her cousin had feared her tantrums more than his father’s anger (with reason, as Théoden had merely laughed) and consoled himself with the thought that she would soon become bored of fighting. It took a good five years of good-natured ribbing from himself and several of the other boys in Edoras before Théodred had admitted he might have been mistaken.

The ride to Helm’s Deep is a long and arduous one, made all the more difficult by the sheer number of people that must be moved. Boromir spends most days riding at the head of the seemingly endless column with Hama and Gamling, exchanging war stories and memories of Théodred. He is with them when they are attacked by a Warg scout, and only just manages to lop the head off the beast before it reaches Hama.

The ensuing battle is bloody but relatively short, the swiftness of all combatants and the ease of the terrain meaning that they are done before nightfall. But Aragorn is nowhere to be found, until Gimli and Legolas find the necklace he wore in the hands of one of the Orcs. Théoden allows them no time to tarry and look further, and indeed Boromir agrees there is little point. They reach Helm’s Deep quickly, despite their wounded, and he is glad to be within strong, defensible walls. There is something coming, he knows this, a battle sense honed over many years of war, there is something coming and it will not be easily repelled. The raven waiting for him from Faramir contains no news that truly surprises him, merely the problems inherent in the defence of an already retaken Osgiliath, and his observation of more armies joining Sauron each passing day. It is obvious to him that there is more on his brother’s mind, and more questions he has concerning the Quest, but these cannot be put into a letter that would have been all too easy to intercept. He writes a quick reply to his brother, informing him of the coming attack on Rohan and bidding him look to their northern borders if it should go ill at Helm’s Deep, and returns to the wall to aid in preparations for a siege.

Éowyn’s grief at Aragorn’s passing affects him more than the event itself, as she seems to have cherished hopes of him that Boromir cannot bring himself to tell her were unfounded, not now. An infatuation it may have been, but he is not so cruel as to deprive her of her sorrow. His own grief at Aragorn’s passing is acute, as is his guilt for being unable to save his King’s life as Aragorn had saved his, but he has withstood many such blows, and there is no time for grief.

His relief at seeing Aragorn alive is short-lived, however, when the man appears in the doorway of the King’s hall bearing news of the Uruk-hai host that is almost upon them. The men housed within Helm’s Deep are too few, he knows this as well as Théoden does, and equally he knows that supplementing the few they have with untrained boys will not give them the advantage they need. The boys will die alongside the men, and there is nothing they can do. The women and children are sent into the caves behind the keep with Éowyn, to await either news of their victory or a horde of Uruk-hai bent on their deaths. There is very little chance of a victory, but he keeps his tongue between his teeth and does his utmost to raise the men’s spirits.

In this he is not helped by his companions. Boromir bears no part in the argument between Legolas and Aragorn, and considers it the height of stupidity to have argued in such a manner in front of men who are already certain that they will die tonight. The spreading of despondency is a military crime, and any officer of his who behaved in such a manner would be stripped of his post without delay. It is not his place to admonish them, however, and they seem to have reconciled before the elf host arrives. For the first time Boromir dares to entertain a hope of them surviving the night.

That hope lasts as long as it takes for the outer wall of the defences to go up in an explosion of rubble and bodies. The rest of the night is a blur of death and blood and fatigue. _Valar, but he’s tired_. By the time the night is over all but a bare two score of the men are dead, and Aragorn and Théoden lead one last charge out of the keep, only to be greeted by the wizard and Éomer’s company as they come storming down the hill to crash into the ranks of the remaining Uruk-hai. Those remaining alive promptly flee towards the forest, and from the noises that emerge soon after, are swiftly taken care of.

Their return to Edoras is as swift as their excursion to Isengard, as there is nothing left of Helm’s Deep to defend, and the threat is no longer present, now that Saruman is defeated. Boromir and Éomer ride at the head of the column with Éomer’s best men and clear the way of any Orc stragglers. It is easier than being near Hama, who lost his son in the battle, and Théoden, whose courage rose to the challenge of a fight to the death, but who is now feeling the effects of a fourteen hour battle with a body that is older than it once was.

He raises his cup to those who perished at Helm’s Deep along with everyone else in the Golden Hall, and laughingly keeps tally with Éomer when Gimli decides to challenge Legolas to a drinking game. The elf is not nearly as unaffected by the alcohol as he is choosing to pretend, but watching him keep up the pretence is entertaining in and of itself, so Boromir does not challenge him. Later, when all have gone to their beds and Pippin wakes them by meddling with the palantir, he does not allow vexation to overcome him as Mithrandir does, merely keeping his distance from it and reassuring Pippin when he wakes. The orb looks very like the one Boromir knows his father keeps in his tower, and despite his best efforts, when Pippin tells them of what he saw, he cannot choke back the cloying fear that perhaps his father does not see as clearly as he believes. Sauron was ever the deceiver, and if he has access to the seeing stones, who knows how badly the Enemy has corrupted his father’s mind.

Mithrandir and Pippin ride for Minas Tirith the very next day, and he wishes of all things to accompany them, but there is no horse in the stables that can match Shadowfax, and they must not be delayed. Boromir pulls Mithrandir aside before they depart, desiring to warn him of the opposition he will face.

“My father is not the man he once was, and his mind has grown ever more shadowed of late. Do not allow him to do anything you believe to be ill-judged. I trust you in this, Mithrandir. He must not be allowed to command the city’s defences. He did not long let the palantir of the white tower idle after you warned him, and I fear for his mind. He will disbelieve everything you say, and there is no spell to be lifted there.”

The wizard nods. “I am aware that your father has long been meddling with things he should not have been.”

Boromir raises an eyebrow. “In that he is hardly alone, Mithrandir. Your meddling is the stuff of legend.” The wizard concedes the point with a nod and he continues. “Should it be necessary, speak to the captain of the city watch, and tell him what you fear. He is the only one, besides my brother, to know of my concerns regarding my father. He will assist you. Tell no-one else. And do not allow my brother to throw his life away for my father’s affection, if you can manage it.” He observes the deepening look of surprise on Mithrandir’s face, and waves a hand impatiently. “I have commanded Gondor’s armies for many years. I know the look of madness, and despair, and my family has been visited too often by both. Protect them both if you can, but do not allow my father to send Faramir to his death. You had always a kindness for him, do not fail him now.”

Mithrandir leaves Edoras at all speed with Pippin, and Boromir returns to the arduous task of persuading Théoden to muster his armies and march to Gondor’s aid. The King is not unsympathetic, but insists he must think of his country first. Boromir reminds himself almost hourly that it would be unseemly to attempt to shake sense into a neighbouring country’s monarch, no matter how pig-headed he insists on being. Éowyn lends her voice to his when she is present in the Hall: she is often busy with distributing food and dealing with the minutiae of running a country, and so it is usually his voice against all the King’s councillors, as Legolas and Gimli remain uninvolved in the argument, and Aragorn is frequently absent.

Mere days after Mithrandir and Pippin left them, Aragorn causes yet another stir in the King’s hall when he runs in shouting about the beacons, and Boromir’s heart clenches. For the beacons to be lit as soon as Mithrandir arrived in the city must mean Minas Tirith is in grave danger. He occupies himself on the ride to Dunharrow with consideration of the city’s defences and what measures he hopes are being put in place. Eventually he abandons such thoughts, as they bring only more worry in their wake.

Too few muster at Dunharrow, but they can tarry no longer. Legolas and Gimli come to him the night before they ride for Gondor and bid him accompany them with Aragorn through the mountains. The fury that rips through him at the elf’s words surprises him, not in its potency but in its suddenness. They choose to depart on the eve of battle, when the men’s morale is in most need of bolstering, leaving the army to a competent but untried general and a King who is dangerously close to suicidally reckless. He refuses with little compunction and no guilt. His city is endangered and his people are dying and his family is falling apart at the seams. He has no time or energy to spare for a reckless, foolhardy bid for an army that was lost long ago. Legolas nods, his face closing off in the manner common to the elves, and leaves without another word. Gimli remains another minute, staring at him, and nods eventually.

“You do what you must, laddie. I’d do the same in your boots.”

Boromir clasps the dwarf’s hand and nods.

Gimli speaks again before leaving the tent. “If we don’t see each other again, lad, know that I forgave you before ever we reached Edoras. I am a dwarf, and I know the power of gold, let alone a ring enchanted by the Enemy. It was a bad business, but if we’d all stayed together it would have gotten the rest of us soon enough.” His voice turns gruff. “Mahal protect you, laddie. Chances are you’ll need it.”

He turns and leaves the tent, presumably to catch up with Legolas before he leaves with Aragorn. His words are a slight balm to the guilt Boromir has carried since Amon Hen, but the manner of their departure still enrages him. To leave in such a way on the eve of war will not endear them to the men, and could well cause some of the less loyally-minded to abandon their oaths. He does not waste his time attempting to find and reason with Aragorn, for he knows his influence there is slim, and focusses his thoughts instead on the preparations for their ride to Gondor.

He rides at the head of the army as it moves south, passing through country he has traversed many a time, although always under better circumstances. On the second day, he is worried to find that Merry has contravened the King’s orders and has persuaded one of the riders to take him up. Boromir examines the rider from a distance and recognises enough of them to know not to look any closer. Éowyn has ever wished for war and battle, and there is no time to send her back. The chances of any of them surviving the week are meagre at best, and he will not begrudge her the choice of her manner of death.

They arrive at Minas Tirith at sunrise, mere days after setting forth, and he is horrified to see the ruin his beloved city has become. There seems barely to be a tower left standing, and even from a distance he can clearly see that the gates have been breached. Théoden leads the charge down the hill and the battle is joined. Before long he loses sight of Éomer and Théoden. Merry and Éowyn he hopes have the sense to stay together, but there is no time for further reflection amid the chaos of the battlefield.

They repel the orcs currently besieging the city without undue difficulty, but the oliphaunts are somewhat of a setback. He sees Éomer throw a spear straight through the chest of the man holding the reins of one of the beasts, and sends one of his knives spinning towards another. Slowly the oliphaunts overcome the strength of the Rohirrim and press further to the city, only to be stopped by spectral figures from the river. Aragorn succeeded then; Boromir should know better than to doubt him by now, but this is a miracle indeed. The armies of Mordor are repelled, for now, and those that remain alive and whole search the field for their kin. Their losses are innumerable, but for now there is only one face he seeks and desperately hopes not to find amid the dead.

He enters the city through the wreckage of the main gate, and is hailed almost immediately by men who fought under him at Osgiliath and before, who had apparently believed him dead. He turns it off with a laugh and tells them it would take more than the amassed armies of Mordor to kill him, and leaves them laughing, unaware of having troubled him. If his father had believed him dead then surely Mithrandir would have corrected him? Surely the Steward would not have believed Mithrandir capable of deceiving him in such a matter.

He encounters more men he knows the further into his city he ventures, all of them professing surprise at seeing him alive. The unease in his heart increases and he is brusque as he demands of them if they know of his brother’s whereabouts, or failing that, Mithrandir’s. They are able to inform him that his brother was brought in after the defeat at Osgiliath and was seen to be wounded, but they know no more of his fate. Mithrandir they saw not an hour ago on the upper levels, directing the remaining soldiers to root every Orc out of the city. Boromir does not dare ask after his father: he fears the response he may receive. He turns instead towards the upper levels of Minas Tirith and goes in search of the wizard.

A flash of a white cloak causes him to retrace his steps down two flights of stairs to catch up with Mithrandir and Pippin, both of whom seem relatively unscathed. Pippin sees him first and turns as white as his companion’s cloak, before turning and running to accompany the men who have just left. Mithrandir turns when he sees that the hobbit has disappeared, and the exhaustion in his face deepens when he sees Boromir. He motions the Captain of Gondor to walk with him, ignoring Boromir’s demand to know why he is so grave when they have won, refusing to speak until they are alone in an outer wing of the citadel, and as alone as they can be amongst such turmoil.

The wizard opens and closes his mouth once, then speaks the words that he had feared ever since stepping into the city. “My lord Steward.” Boromir closes his eyes and wills away the pain of his father’s passing, for now is not the time to indulge it. He nods at Mithrandir to continue.

“Lord Denethor had sunk further into madness than either of us knew. Your brother he sent to Osgiliath, to attempt to retake the city. A fool’s errand, and so I told him, but Faramir would not disobey a direct order from his father. His horse brought him back to the city before the battle began, and he was taken to your father, who was… overcome with grief. I was obliged to wrest control of the city’s defences from him, and I believed him to be unconscious or I would have set a guard –“

“Mithrandir, enough.” Boromir breaks in. “What of my brother?”

“In his madness, your father believed him to be already dead. He commanded his guard to bring torches and oil to the tombs of your fathers, and there he set himself and his son alight.”

His knees buckle and he falls to the ground. Not even in his wildest and darkest nightmares had he thought his father capable of this.

Mithrandir places a hand on his shoulder, and speaks in a voice heavy with grief. “Your brother lives for now, but the healers say it will not be long. Go to him.”

It is a short eternity before he can command his limbs well enough to rise to his feet. The Houses of Healing are close by, and his feet take him there mechanically, not acknowledging the men who hail him.

The grey-haired head healer greets him with tears in her eyes, for she had known himself and his brother as boys, and takes him to Faramir.

He barely recognises his brother. Much of the flesh has been burned away, and his breathing is laboured and shallow. The look of death is not unfamiliar to him, but he had never thought to see it on his little brother. The sob that breaks free from his chest alerts Faramir to his presence, and his head turns towards the door instead of the window.

“The battle?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“It is won, brother. Gondor still stands.” He kneels at the side of the bed and takes one of Faramir’s hands in his. “I am so sorry –“

“Enough, Boromir. You are not at fault. I am happy to see you, to know that you are well, but none of this was of your making.”

“If I had returned sooner…”

“You did what was best for Gondor, what was best for our people. None will fault you for that, least of all I.”

Boromir blinks back tears. “Enough of Gondor. She will stand on her own for a time. You must concentrate your efforts on becoming well again.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, brother mine. We both know I am not long for this world.” He raises the hand Boromir still holds to wipe the tears from his older brother’s cheeks. “When we retook Osgiliath, you bade me remember that day, for life was good. I would have you remember me as I was then, whole and laughing. Not like this. No-one should remember their brother like this. Promise me.”

“Of course I will.” He speaks through the tears that stream down his face. “It was as good a day as we’ve seen in many a year. You approved of my speech.”

The smile Faramir attempts is more of a grimace, and his eyes flickers erratically. “Nice and short.” A visible effort enables him to open his eyes fully. “Goodbye, my brother, my Captain.”

Boromir does not attempt to restrain the tears flowing down his face. “I have loved no other as I loved you, little brother. Go in peace.”

Faramir’s eyes do not open again, but Boromir does not leave his side until his last breath is spent. The head healer comes in several hours later, to find him still at his brother’s side, on knees that have long since gone numb and stiff. She pulls him slowly to his feet and supports him when his legs threaten to give way again, helping him to a chair. His heart is as frozen as the rest of him. He should thank her, he knows, and give orders for the necessary preparations to be made, but he cannot command his tongue. His brother is dead.

His brother is _dead_.

The battle seems many years and many leagues away. He should return to his duties, command the men, find out how much of Gondor is habitable and give the necessary orders for the rest of their dead. Aragorn cannot command Gondor yet, the men do not know him and will not trust him, and there is only so much Mithrandir can do in his stead. There is much to be done, and no time for grief.

There is never time for grief, it seems.

But his brother is gone. No matter the ruin of his city and the lives that now depend on him, the death of the one person that mattered clouds his mind with grief and despair, to the exclusion of all else.

He is still in the room his brother died in when Éomer comes in search of him. His friend pulls up short in the doorway, and Boromir is grateful, in a way, that his quickness of mind removes the necessity of announcing his brother’s fate. Éomer crosses the room, placing a hand on his shoulder in solidarity and bows his head in grief.

“I am sorry, my friend.”

Boromir nods and forces his mind to think past his own sorrow. “Your sister. She was with the riders.”

“She is alive, but only thanks to the healing hands of the King. She slew one of the Nine.”

A pale smile crosses his face. “Of course she did.” Éomer acknowledges the point with a weary grin but sobers immediately.

“Théoden King is dead.”

“And all Gondor grieves with Rohan.” The new King of Rohan nods in response to the expected formality.

“It was his time, he told me. He has gone to our fathers’ halls, and he will be remembered as the great king he was. But there is much to be done here. Aragorn is doing what he can, with Mithrandir’s backing, but most of the soldiers know you to be alive and will answer to no other. I am sorry to ask it of you, but –“

“I know. There is no time for grief.” Boromir stands and signals the guard at the door. “Tell the healers to prepare my brother’s body for burial. I will be in the Citadel if I am required.” The guard salutes and leaves to find a healer.

Boromir turns his back on his dead brother and his grief and leaves the houses of healing with Éomer at his side.

The babble in the throne room is muted to a dull roar as he enters, before exploding into a louder chorus of demands and contradictory statements, and for the first time Boromir considers the possibility that the palantir was not the deciding factor in his father’s madness.

“ **Silence**!” He roars, a voice that is used to commanding a battlefield easily rising above the hubbub.

The rooms quietens immediately, and his attention is immediately drawn to Aragorn, who is looking vaguely nonplussed, surrounded by what is left of the Fellowship. His face is not that of a man ready to accept a throne, but it must be done now, or there will be too many questions asked later, and Boromir has always known his duty.

He bends the knee to the Ranger he followed from Rivendell, and intones in a voice that easily passes over the stunned whispers of those around him: “Hail Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, Heir of Isildur!”

There are a few mutterings, but all in the room kneel and repeat his words. They will be sceptical for many years to come, but if the Steward acknowledges his King they have no choice but to follow suit. As for the soldiers, few will hesitate to follow where their Captain leads, and the task of winning over the nobles is a concern for the future.

“Rise, Lord Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Captain of her armies. Rise, all of you. War is upon us still, and there is no time for formalities.”

He dismisses most of the lords present, bidding only Imrahil and Boromir himself remain.

The Prince of Dol Amroth crosses the room to clasp his hand. “All Gondor grieves for the loss of your brother, my lord Steward. May his spirit swiftly find its way to the halls of your fathers.”

Boromir nods, noting the lack of condolences on his father’s passing, and concludes that Imrahil must have found someone to tell him the truth. He is relieved when Aragorn immediately starts enquiring into the state of Gondor’s armies. Prince Imrahil is predictably well-informed, and is soon dismissed with orders from his King. Talk turns to Frodo, and the slim, fading hope they all still share that he and Sam are still alive. Boromir deflects his companions’ attempt to include him in the debate over Sauron’s next move, and theirs. Every decision he has made since the day he set forth from Osgiliath has brought about further ruin.

The sun has risen over the city by the time their council has finished. Boromir leaves to prepare for the ride for Mordor: if it is to be done, it must be quickly.

His brother’s funeral is mercifully short. Éomer stands at his side throughout, not speaking a word but offering support, and Boromir has never before seen how similar he is to Théodred. The funeral pyre flames finish the work his father started, and soon he is left to mourn a brother who is now no more than ashes. He should feel grief, he knows, and sorrow, not this soul-crushing emptiness that sits on his chest and constricts his lungs every time he breathes.

His father’s body has not been found by the time they ride from the city. The few soldiers remaining behind have all vowed to find the late Steward and bury him as befitting his rank, but Boromir finds he could not care less what becomes of the twisted remains of his father’s body. He would almost prefer for the corpse to never be found: let him rot in ignominy and forever be denied the halls of his forebears. Faramir deserves peace, and Denethor never could let him rest. His brother’s murderer has no business disturbing Faramir’s afterlife.

The battle at the Black Gates is brief but harrowing, and cut short by Sauron’s final destruction. Boromir stares at the ruin of Barad-dur and tries to comprehend that they have won. It seems so impossible, so completely and utterly impossible, that even as he gazes upon the ruin of the Enemy he cannot make himself believe that it is so. There is no joy in his heart, either, for this war has cost him everything, and there is a tiny, unheard and ignored part of him that was expecting (hoping, even) to die before the gates of Mordor and find his way to his brother again.

He is tired and he wants an end to it all, but even as he thinks it he knows he is not worthy of his fathers’ halls. The stain on his honour from Amon Hen remains, joined by the knowledge that if he had been maybe a day faster returning to Minas Tirith he could have prevented his brother’s death. He could have stopped his father’s slow slide into the madness that made him take his own son’s life. Could have, could have, could have. There is no use to such thoughts. He will endure, as he always has done, alone and the last of his house, for there is no other honourable option left. Gondor needs a Steward and a Captain, and however little joy there may be in it now he will do it willingly. His people are all he has left, and not easily will he fail them again.

The celebrations in Gondor last for days, and culminate in Aragorn’s crowning and subsequent marriage to Lady Arwen. Frodo is up and walking again before the ceremony, and Boromir can no longer reconcile it with his conscience to avoid the hobbit. He finds him sitting with Sam, Merry and Pippin in one of the guard-towers, smoking and smiling as Merry re-enacts his battle with the Witch-King of Angmar. The general merriment ceases as soon as he is noticed, and it is immediately obvious that he has previously been under discussion, as Merry and Pippin both look somewhat doubtful about the entire situation, whereas Sam looks downright belligerent.

“Good morning, Master Baggins. I would speak with you, if I may.”

Frodo smiles. “I will hear you, if you wish it, but what you would say is not necessary.”

“It is to me, and if you will hear me I am glad of it.” He pauses. “I wish to apologise for what I did at Amon Hen. I was wrong to try and take the Ring from you, and I was wrong to think that it could have benefited Gondor in any way. I do not ask your forgiveness, because such a betrayal could not and should not be forgiven, but…” The words he has planned stick in his throat. “Valar, Frodo, I am sorry.”

“I know, and you are forgiven. The Ring was treacherous from the first, and none of us guarded against it as we should have, save perhaps Sam.” Frodo smiles at Sam, who has visibly relaxed after hearing Boromir’s apology. “It was not all you, Boromir. The Ring influenced your mind; you would never have done such a thing if it had not.”

Boromir opens his mouth to protest, and is cut off.

“I did worse, Boromir.” Frodo’s eyes look haunted and old. “I almost kept it. If it had not been for Gollum none of us would be here.”

There is a story there, more than he or any non-hobbit in the Fellowship has been told, but he knows better than to pry.

“I am truly sorry, Frodo.”

The hobbit nods, and Boromir leaves him be. There is too much to be done to linger, and he suspects Frodo is better left to the comfort of his kin. The guilt that lies on his soul remains, but is slightly lighter for knowing that Frodo has forgiven him.

The next two weeks are spent in a morass of paperwork and politics, as he attempts to teach Aragorn how not to offend half the city every time he gives a speech, which lords must be listened to and which can be safely relegated to obscurity, which duties he must accomplish and which Aragorn prefers to delegate to another. The King will never trust him as he trusts Legolas and Gimli, he knows that and he does not care. He does not have it in him to care anymore: Gondor has a King and a Steward again, and everything that his father did alone is now divided between two. And if Boromir sometimes turns to address someone who isn’t there, no-one is foolhardy enough to point it out. He feels the loss of his brother like he would the loss of a limb, painful and probably never to be recovered from, but he does not allow it to prevent him from doing his duty. It is not until Lady Éowyn knocks on the door to his study, where he is wrestling the mountainous reports from the outer garrisons, that he even considers turning his thoughts to his own life.

She enters slowly, still moving more stiffly than she was used to, not entirely recovered from her fight with the Nazgul, not to mention the five day ride to reach the city. She disposes herself in a chair on the other side of his desk.

“We are to leave tomorrow. Éomer must be crowned in Rohan, and my uncle laid to rest with his kin.” She smiles. “He told me before ever we left Dunharrow that he knew his time had come, but I still find it hard to believe that he is gone.”

Boromir nods. “Théoden was a great king and will be remembered as such.” He does not know what else to say. Courtly platitudes used to come easily to him, but lately his tongue is of lead and his mind full of ashes.

Fortunately, Éowyn does not seem to expect more.

“I thought to have more time to approach this conversation, you see. You must forgive my abruptness.” She pauses, visibly collecting her thoughts. “My brother wishes for me to return to Edoras with him and continue to be the Lady of Rohan. However, I know my brother, and I think he will not long be unwed. I have no desire to play second fiddle in my own home to a woman I would previously have outranked.”

“I understand, my lady, but I do not entirely see what help I can offer.”

“You will require a wife yourself, if not now, then soon. The continuation of the house of stewards is almost as important as that of King Aragorn’s, and I would be eligible enough as a prospective wife.”

A half-smile crosses Boromir’s face, the most amusement he has felt in months, and Éowyn laughs.

“Most indelicate of me, is it not? But we have known each other for many years, you and I, and I have no wish to introduce complications that neither of us have time for. You require a wife who knows how to manage your household and navigate court politics. I will require a husband, and for my own sake I would prefer he not be so stupid as to think that I will sit indoors and play house-mouse all day. Neither of us is in love with the other, but I think we could learn to make each other comfortable, at least.”

He stands and goes to sit beside her. “My lady, I am entirely in agreement with you in all that you have said, but it would be most ill done of me. You should marry a man who you can say more of than that you think marriage to him would be tolerable, and I have no heart left to offer you.”

“I never wished to marry, you know.” She smiles up at him, open and friendly. “If I could remain a spinster to the end of my days, and be as free as I was as Dernhelm, then I would do so with a happy heart, but an unmarried man is a very different matter than an unmarried woman. Eventually I imagine I would marry to please my brother, for I know he would wish it, but I would have no guarantee of loving him, or even of respecting him. If you do not wish to be married to me then I entirely understand, but pray do not believe that I propose this lightly. You say that you have no heart to offer me: I say that you have honour, and compassion, and a better understanding than most men twice your age can boast of. And I think that you saw me, before we reached Minas Tirith. You saw me and yet still you allowed me to ride with you to war.”

“It is not my right to choose your fate,” he tells her.

“No, it is not,” she agrees. “You allowed me the dignity of my choice and for that I thank you. You are a better man than any other I have known, and in all frankness I do not need you to offer me your heart. I want a companion whom I can respect and grow old with, who will allow me to share in his life as I allow him to share in mine.”

Boromir stands again and goes over to the window, scraping a hand over his face, hardly believing that he is considering her suggestion, but everything she says makes sense. An alliance between their houses would strengthen ties between Gondor and Rohan, as well. Politically it would make sense, but he cannot rid himself of the feeling that she deserves better.

She allows him a few minutes of reflection, then stands and comes to take his hand as he turns to her.

“It would be most ill done of me,” he says again. “I… I no longer feel anything as I used to, or as I should. I watched the Enemy’s destruction with my own eyes and I felt nothing. I see my city rebuilding and healing and I know I should be glad, I know I would have been glad, but I cannot feel it. My brother… My brother’s passing broke something in me, I think. I will not burden you with a husband so wrapped up in his own grief and guilt that he is incapable of emotion.”

She covers the hand she has taken with both of hers. “I know how much you loved your brother, and I am truly sorry for all you have lost. However, I do not think you as unfeeling as you would have me believe.” She disengages her hands from his with another smile. “I shall not press you, and indeed I should not have brought this up now. I merely wished to know if it was something you would consider.”

She turns to leave, and he knows that she is more than he deserves, more than he will ever deserve, but this is her choice as well as his, and she has made it.

“Wait.” Éowyn pauses at the door and looks back at him. “I cannot promise you that I will ever be the husband you deserve. I cannot even promise to love you.”

“Persons in our walk of life do not always have the luxury of love. There are two countries to rebuild, there is Arnor to retake, and there is a city in ruins that needs her Captain. I do not want you to love me. I want you to respect me.” She considers for a moment. “And I would like you to promise me something.”

“Anything that is in my power, my lady.”

“We will have children, one day. Promise me that you will love them even if you never love me. I will not allow my children to feel that their father does not love them.”

“That is an easy promise, lady. I will not inflict my father’s indifference towards my brother on any son of mine.”

She grins at him, an almost boyish expression that has more than a hint of smugness about it. “It is agreed, then?”

He nods and takes her hand in his again, and tries for her sake to feel something other than that a wife would be desirable and helpful in his duties towards Gondor. He thinks she knows that he fails, but she does not seem to mind.

Before the day is out Éomer is in his study, pacing and very obviously trying not to ask how this engagement came about without his knowledge.

“My friend, you are as good a man as I could have wished for, but I would have sworn that this was not in your mind before today. I know my sister well enough to be sure that she has had a hand in this, and I would expect nothing less, but…”

“But you worry for her, because I am not the man I was when we rode from Dunharrow.”

The grief in the King of Rohan’s eyes is clear. “I am sorry to say it, but you have aged before my very eyes, enough that I would suspect a spell if Saruman was not half a world away.”

“Do not be sorry, for I know it as well as you. I will do everything in my power to make her happy here, but I will not blame you if you wish for her to return to Rohan with you instead.”

Éomer grimaces. “I know better than to stand in my sister’s way once she has decided on a path, and I know that you will be good to her, but I also fear for you. We are friends as well as allies, and I would not have your grief intruded upon by Éowyn’s plans.”

Boromir raises an eyebrow at him and he chuckles self-consciously.

“You are more than ten years my senior and you undoubtedly know your own mind, but there is no denying that my sister is persistent when she wants to be.”

Boromir nods. “That she is, but I find myself content with the situation as it stands.”

Their conversation turns to the rebuilding of Gondor, and the possibility of putting in place a messenger system between their countries to facilitate communication. He doubts not that the King of Rohan has already questioned Éowyn regarding this plan, and he doubts even less that Aragorn will disapprove. There will be time enough to deal with the King, however, and he knows that this course will solve more problems than it creates.

The wedding of the Steward of Gondor to the White Lady of Edoras takes place a mere month after Éowyn proposed it to him, in a ceremony officiated by the King of Gondor, and soon he finds that they are content enough together. She is well used to managing a household and a court, and indeed she does it better than Queen Arwen most days, and he is a good enough husband, he supposes. Éowyn has not told him otherwise, at least, and most days she has enough to tell him of the court gossip and the small number of men and women who tell her of the important happenings in the city, that his own lack of conversation seems unimportant. He tries, but he cannot make things interesting the way she can, he has not the same grace of manner that seems to come so easily to the King and Queen.

Halfway through their second year of marriage, Éowyn announces she is with child, and the whole city rejoices. Boromir smiles at his wife and professes himself glad, all too aware that the delight he should be feeling is absent. Mere months later, the healers summon him to her chambers, where she presents him with not one, but two sons, both as fair as their mother. He smiles upon them and takes Éowyn’s hand, and tries to feel something other than this cursed emptiness, but there is nothing.

Nothing, that is, until Éowyn whispers to him that she would like to have the elder named Faramir, if it would please him? He buries a smile in her hair, a proper one this time, filled with admiration for this amazing woman who gives and gives and gives until he finally has enough to start giving back. He is not there yet, but he has hope that one day he might be. He holds Faramir in his arms, and traces a likeness to his namesake in his nose and eyes, and for the first time thinks of his brother without remembering the rattling breath that was his last. He remembers him at Osgiliath, grinning and laughing at his brother, the way Faramir wanted to be remembered, and the cold emptiness in his chest eases up a little.

They name the twins Faramir and Théodred, and the city celebrates for three days complete. The two boys are exhausting, but slowly Boromir learns to be a father as well as a husband. He picks the boys up when they fall over, smiles at them when they learn new words, and tells them stories of his travels while they listen, spellbound. He tells Éowyn of the idiocy of the generals of the outer garrison, and of the blunder the King made when speaking to some southern lords that had come to negotiate trade deals. She laughs with him and commiserates over the lack of education in politics received by Rangers, laughing more when he accuses her of mocking the problems he faces.

The boys grow to be strong lads, eager for play swords and battle practice and tree climbing, and are never happier than when they are causing the most trouble they possibly can. They are six years old when Faramir comes to him, his slightly quieter brother at his side, and asks him if it is true that he had a brother named Faramir, and what happened to him?

His heart catches in his throat, and for a horrible moment he knows his face is as stricken as it was the day he lost his brother, but he regains control of himself before he can frighten his sons away, and bids them sit beside him. They do, clambering up one on each side so they can both clutch one of his arms, and this time he tells them a different story. He tells them of growing up in Gondor with his little brother, and the adventures they had, and the time they swapped out the salt and sugar at a great feast and were confined to their chambers for a week. He tells them of Faramir’s prowess as an archer and as a scholar and as a leader. He leaves out all mention of his father and the end his brother met, saying only that he died. There will be time for that when they are older, for now none would dare speak to them of the details of Faramir’s death. It is several hours later when he stops talking, aware of how tired the two boys must be. They don’t look it, though: they hang off his sleeves when he stands up and beg for more details, wanting to know everything about their uncle. And does that mean that Théodred is named after someone great as well?

Boromir laughs, a hearty thing that he had thought lost with his brother, and picks up his sons, telling them that their mother will want to tell them of Théodred of Rohan, for he was her cousin. He carries them through the citadel, back to the apartments allocated to the Steward’s family, and kisses Éowyn’s temple when the boys insist on her joining the embrace. They sit as a family and tell their children of their namesakes, pausing once or twice to warn their sons of how ill-advised it would be to copy certain pranks.

Later, Boromir gazes out over his city as he smokes a pipe and remembers his brother at Osgiliath, on the training fields, in the halls they grew up in, laughing and following his older brother, and he finally, finally allows his brother’s spirit the peace he deserves.

 


End file.
